Lost
by chzahradsfdas
Summary: /She was almost home from work. No, she was home. Maybe that's why she was careless./
1. Part 1

She was almost home from work.

No, she was home.

Maybe that's why she was careless. Most attacks only came just outside the club, or only a few blocks away.

Roger always told her she shouldn't walk home alone. He always said she should let him pick her up, but of course she said no. She could handle herself.

So when she walked into her apartment, she thought she was safe.

But then he grabbed her from behind, and she didn't know which way was up anymore, and she was on the ground with her skirt up before she could think.

She couldn't see. She couldn't hear. It was like a sense-block had fallen over her mind.

She could feel though, oh, could she feel.

She knew she screamed. _"Roger! Mark! Anyone, please!" _

But then her mouth was covered, by his hand, by his mouth that tasted like vodka and cigarettes and blood.

It hurt.

She cried.

He never said a word, she never even saw his face, she was too numb to think, the pain was too much.

And then he was done.

He slapped her face.

She blacked out.

That was where they found her.


	2. Part 2

_"MARK, GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE NOW!"_

* * *

><p>Roger thought it was his fault. If he'd just insisted that he walk Mimi home like he always said, maybe she'd have let him this once, and it wouldn't have happened.<p>

Mark thought it was his fault. He'd been home when it happened, but hadn't heard her cry for help. If only he'd heard her, he might have stopped it somehow.

Mimi was the only one of the three who wasn't playing the blame game. She thought, bad things happen in life, to everyone, and people can't just stop living for tragedy. She made it her goal to recover as quickly as possible, physically and mentally.

As soon as she was well enough to dance again, she went back to work. She was, after all, the main money-winner at the Cat Scratch, so her boss was happy to welcome her back.

It didn't stop her from being afraid, though.

Mark and Roger walked her home every night. They each felt like they had to, since it was their fault this had happened, and neither really objected when the other tagged along.

Mark and Roger both wanted the man who'd done this dead. Mimi didn't. She hoped he'd see what he'd done and find his own peace, with God, with life, or with humanity.

But sometimes at night, when she lay awake in bed, she hoped that he'd feel what he'd done to her. When she woke from her nightmares, drenched in sweat and tears and gasping for breath, she wanted him worse than dead. She wanted him tortured. She wanted him to feel the horror and relive it night after night, just like she did.

She moved upstairs. The memories were too thick in her old apartment. The bloodstain on the floor didn't help any.

She slept in Collins' old room, surrounded by the remnants of her belongings and the familiar smell of her old friend.

Some nights, Roger had to hold her hand and sing her a lullaby before she could stop crying long enough to even think of sleeping.

She never saw him gently place her hand on the bed each night, then bury his head in his hands and sob. Mark was always there then, to take his hand and tell him stories, wonderful stories about a warm Christmas Eve and an Angel in drag, and help him sleep like he helped Mimi.

No one was there for Mark but his thoughts, but he was used to that.

They were all lost children, bewildered at how this could happen, and struggling so hard to move on. Tumultuous as their lives had been, they'd never faced this. They'd hoped they never would.

Wishes don't come true, it was something Mimi had accepted as part of life. It was bound to happen sometime, something like this, to any of us. She tried so hard to make herself believe it, to be glad that it was at least her and not Mark, who couldn't even stand up to Mimi in a fight, who might have been killed.

She tried not to ask why. Why was one of life's hardest questions, why made you regret, and when you were lost in regret, you couldn't live, and when you were dying, living was pretty damn important.

One thing Mimi was grateful for, in all this, was that she never had to worry about AIDS. She never had to ask, _did I get AIDS?_ because she already knew.

It didn't stop her from shaking, or the nausea from surging up whenever she thought about it. She was going to die. Who knew what toll this had taken on her body, who knew how long she had left. She wouldn't have had long anyway.

She was going to die.

She was going to die.

_She was going to die…_


	3. Part 3

It didn't take long.

She just fell asleep and never woke up.

It was better that way, it had to be. At least she wasn't in any pain.

At least, that's what they hoped.

Mark and Roger saw it coming from miles away, just like she did. That gave them the time to work at getting their emotions into the little box, to resist having a total breakdown.

It was Valentine's Day.

It was Roger who found her that morning, and Mark who found him holding her body, crying silently. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and laid her back down as Mark took care of what needed taking care of. He was good at that.

It was Mark who held Roger's hand through the funeral, like April's those few years ago. Too few.

It was Mark who held Roger tight at home that night, when neither of them could sleep, and softly told him more stories.

It was Mark who sat alone once Roger was asleep, wondering what would happen when Roger, too, died, leaving him alone.

But he knew, because it was what was happening now, what had happened before.

Life would go on.


End file.
